


Say the Word, I'll Find the Scene

by atavist



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atavist/pseuds/atavist
Summary: Katara shouldn't have been rude to her new customer, no matter how busy the coffeeshop or how obnoxiously he ordered his latte. Then she shouldn't have found herself smiling every time he came back. She really shouldn't have started crushing on him. And she really, really, really shouldn't keep pretending she can't speak English.
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> heads up: the italics indicate English dialogue, everything else is Italian

Katara arrives for her shift at the coffee shop just in time, wrapping her apron around her waist as she hip checks the kitchen door open.

"Good morning, Kiara," Roberto says, appearing from behind the oven, sweaty hair in disarray. "How are you?"

"Stressed," Katara whines. "Why do you open so early?"

"Kiara," Roberto protests, his hands reaching for the sky in dramatic dismay. "I opened four hours ago."

"I woke up four minutes ago," Katara grumbles, reaching for some coffee filters, and ducking between the trays of hot pastries that Roberto is way too haphazard about stacking. Everything smells of chocolate and butter and other good things that Katara never lets herself eat.

"Young people spending half their lives in bed," Roberto despairs. "There is only one good reason to spend all day in bed." He holds up an emphatic finger. "One."

"Eleven am is not all day," she retorts. "And I did have a good reason for staying in bed. I was tired." She realizes, belatedly, that she hasn't helped herself at all when Roberto grins savagely. "Ugh," she groans. "Do you want me to take these ricciarelli out front?"

Roberto suddenly looks less gleeful. "Those are bruttimabuoni," he says, borderline offended.

"Same difference," Katara says, just to be an asshole.

"Get out of my kitchen," Roberto demands. "Stupid American girl."

"Canadian," Katara corrects.

"Same difference," Roberto shouts after her.

Katara walks out to the store, smiling when she's greeted with the regular chorus of _Kiara!_ that always makes her feel at home. She likes this job, likes this little shop, likes that it's far enough off the beaten track to stave away the tourist hordes, likes that she gets to use her Italian as she serves the locals who have been coming here since it opened. It's been a long time since she felt self-conscious when speaking—not to brag—her third language.

The usual mid-morning crew is scattered around the room. Valentina and Fredo are by the window, bickering loudly over a game of chess. Sal is hunched over his laptop, fingers hovering above the keyboard, typically oblivious to the adoring glances Annetta is giving him from her own table just six feet away. The only other occupied table is taken by Paolo and Ricci, brothers who retired from bus tour trade, and seem content to live out their lives sipping strong coffee while arguing over conspiracy theories.

There's just one person at the counter, a man of dubious age, and even more dubious style.

"New haircut, Cristiano?" Katara asks as she unloads the tray of pastries onto refrigerated shelves. "Sharp." It's more a commentary than a compliment, given that the parting has an inch of hair growing on the wrong side of the razor line.

"For the ladies, Kiara."

Cristiano has a lot of things going on for the ladies, such as a shiny gray suit that is always pressed to within an inch of its life, a gold bracelet that hangs garishly from a skinny wrist, and a stench of cologne that makes Katara's nose run. The only problem with Cristiano's 'for the ladies' schtick is that there never seem to be any ladies around him to appreciate it.

"Kiara," Valentina calls. "More coffee, please. And maybe one of those bruttimabuoni. I'll need to keep up my strength if I am to beat the best cheater in Rome today."

"Pfft," Fredo scoffs, puffing his chest out. "You are not playing yourself. The day you beat me without cheating will be—"

"Every day," Valentina says, snorting rudely. "I only let you win when I feel sorry for you, or when I don't want to listen to you crying like a newborn infant."

"You know who cries like a newborn infant? Your sister—"

"Don't bring my sister into this. Not when _your_ sister—"

It alarmed Katara, the first couple of times she'd seen Valentina and Fredo go at each other, but it didn't take long to learn that it was all volume and little heat. Apparently, they'd been arguing about chess all their married lives. The most serious fight was back in 1968 and had lasted four days. It had, Fredo will admit, been a bit of a rough start to their honeymoon.

"Did you see last night's episode of _Squali Nel Mare Empio_ , Kiara?" Ricci asks when Katara begins to make her rounds with the coffee pot. "It was the season finale. Papa Dino was just about to marry Felicia and Luigi, when the door bursts open, and who is standing there but Cardinal Soffio. Only it's not him, because he peels his face off, revealing that he is, indeed, the real Papa Dino."

"I saw that coming," Valentina huffs. "Ever since the chemical lab explosion in the papal quarters that left the Papa Dino so disfigured that not even his own mother, Sister Anna-Maria, could recognize him. It was too unbelievable."

Personally, Katara thinks credibility was shown the door with the face peeling and the chemical lab in the pope's private rooms. But she's wise enough not to mention any of that. They take this show very seriously here at Roberto's, gathering to discuss themes and topics every Tuesday morning, like some sort of weird book club. About a demented soap opera. "You still sending in your storylines, Valentina?"

She scoffs in disgust. "Every week, honey. But they just send me back the same response. 'Thank you for your interest in our show. We currently have a team of talented writers who work together to create complex and diverse scripts for your enjoyment. At this time, we are not looking to recruit additional staff.'"

"'Go away, crazy lady, before we block your IP address,'" Fredo adds.

"Shut up, stupid man, before I start poisoning your food."

"Couldn't make it taste any worse," Fredo huffs.

"But did you see how beautiful Felicia was?" Annetta blurts, wistfully gazing at Sal. "How Luigi looked at her like she was his princess."

"Hold on, isn't she his daughter?" Katara asks, frowning. She's never seen a single episode of the show, but she's absorbed bits and pieces through osmosis.

"Not anymore," Paolo says. "Now she is his half twin sister."

"There are half twin siblings?"

"Same mother, different fathers," Valentina explains.

"Happened to my cat before," Sal adds without looking up from his screen.

"I feel like I should have guessed that," Paolo says, almost ruefully. "When the parcel arrived from the King of Finland on their birthday."

"Wait," Katara says, literally scratching her head. "Finland has a monarchy?"

"A secret one," Ricci says, nodding.

"Wow," she responds, meaning it, but she doesn't get to ask anymore because the door opens to let in a guy she's never seen before. All eyes fall on the newcomer as he tugs off his gray hard hat, revealing a shock of staticky black fluff. He blinks a little at the sudden attention and wipes his hands on his high-visibility vest, setting free a small cloud of dust.

Katara puts the coffee pot back on the burner and collects her notebook as the guy finds himself a table. "Good morning. Are you ready to order?"

The guy sighs while glaring at his own dirty fingernails. _"You speak English?"_ he asks with an American accent. Katara can feel her teeth set. She's long done with English-speaking tourists assuming that the rest of the world needs to speak their language, just in case they decide to drop by one day.

Katara hasn't answered by the time the American finishes scanning the plastic menu. He looks up then, blinking at her, like she's the one being rude here. His eyes are big and an odd pale amber, sharp with annoyance. _"Speako English?"_ he says obnoxiously.

Katara bites the inside of her cheek. She's pretty sure she's not allowed to bar anyone from the premises.

 _"Fine,"_ the American grumbles, as if this is another unbearable sufferance to be endured. _"One latte and one of these."_ He points to a picture of Roberto's famous sfogliatella.

"Si," Katara nods politely and leaves for the kitchen where she steams the milk so it's barely warm and bypasses the tray of oven fresh sfogliatella in favour of yesterday's biscotti amaro – cookies loaded with coffee and almonds, so bitter that only Roberto's oldest and most loyal clientele ever ask for them.

"Where are you going with that, Kiara?" Roberto asks as she makes her way back out front.

"To the trash," she answers. _Speako English_. Speako _fucking_ English. Too damned lazy to even learn _Parla Inglese_. What a fucking—

 _"I didn't order this,"_ the American says when it's put in front of him. He pokes suspiciously at the biscuit and looks up at her. _"That wasn't the picture I pointed to."_

Katara stares back at him innocently.

 _"I didn't…"_ the guy begins. _"Oh, never mind."_ She turns away, but she can hear spluttering and choking, followed by some hacking coughs.

 _"Fuck,"_ the guy gasps and swigs at his coffee. _"Ah, man, this is almost cold. Shit. Fuck this day anyway."_

Katara smirks down at the menus she's pretending to organize, the little flare of satisfaction soothing her temper. Ten minutes later, the guy leaves with a scowl in her direction.

Katara clears his table and scoffs at the exact change that was left behind. Knowing the idiot actually paid for what he got makes up for the lack of tip.

"Pretty boy," Valentina says mildly when Katara comes back from the kitchen.

"Pretty asshole," she snorts.

"Americano?"

"Si."

"And what? We no speak Americano?"

 _"We no want him to come back,"_ Katara mutters to herself.

He comes back anyway, the following morning, seemingly undeterred by Katara's rudeness and bad service. " _Just going to wash my hands_ ," he says after putting his phone and hat down on the same table he sat at yesterday, like he's claiming it as his own space.

"You do know that there are thousands of coffee shops in Rome, right?" Katara says, continuing to fold napkins in half.

 _"See,"_ the guy says, holding up his dusty hands. _"Going to wash them, okay? I'll be back in a minute, and then you can screw up my order again."_

"I mean," Katara continues, shrugging. "I feel it would almost be selfish of us to keep your business all to ourselves."

_"Can you keep an eye on my phone? The one I'm pointing to. That phone there, not some other phone that looks and tastes nothing like that phone."_

"I could write you a list of good places. How would you like me to organize them? Geographically? Alphabetically?"

The guy narrows his eyes suspiciously. _"That's a very long way of saying yes. But, whatever. Where's the restroom, the uh, toilet."_

"Go back out the door you just came through, turn left, or right, your choice, and keep going for about three miles. Or five. Or ten."

 _"What?"_ the guy says impatiently. _"Look, toilet. Where is the toilet?"_ He says it like a British person might, no softening of the consonants. Toy-lit.

Katara takes a breath and points to the door across from the kitchen.

_"Right, thanks. Grazie."_

"Hurry back," she drawls, walking over to the table to set it. Or haphazardly throw cutlery onto it.

"Hey, Kiara," Valentina says suddenly. "This boy is a mystery, no?"

Katara frowns at her. "A mystery?"

"Si. He works in construction. Do you not think that is strange?"

"No," she answers. "There are roadworks going on behind the plaza. He probably works there."

"But how would an American, who speaks no Italian, get a job in Italian construction?"

"I don't know," Katara says, shrugging. "But in the grand scheme of things, it's hardly a cardinal led rebellion to overthrow the pope because he's hiding the devil's baby in the Sistine Chapel."

"Ack," Valentina says, waving her hands about. "Look at his stuff."

"Really missing your soap opera, huh?"

"His stuff, Kiara. Look at his stuff!"

Katara rolls her eyes, but decides to indulge Valentina a little. She glances quickly at the still closed door of the restroom, and flips over the helmet to look inside. "Oh my god," she whispers, setting it down as it was, and taking a step back.

"What?" everybody gasps, wide-eyed and chin hands.

"Well," Katara says slowly. "I don't know how to say this. But."

"What?"

"On the inside of his hat are some letters and numbers. I've seen them before, and I know what they mean. But I never thought. I can't—" she stops like she can't bear to go on.

"WHAT?"

Katara swallows and croaks out, "His hat size is fifteen and a half inches."

The collective outrage can probably be heard in the restroom, everyone hissing their displeasure at her, except for Cristiano who nods wisely and says, "Yes, Americans have big heads."

"Kiara," Valentina sighs, like Katara is the most crushing disappointment in her life.

"It's a hat, Valentina. Not a clue to crack the Da Vinci Code. What did you—" She stops, a little startled when the phone lights up and vibrates on the table. She looks down, and then quickly away, but not before she's seen what's on the screen.

 **Father** : _Zuko, you are breaking your mother's heart. How could you be so selfish?_

Zuko. What kind of name is that?

"What does it say?" Fredo asks.

"I didn't read it," Katara lies, crossing the shop's floor and busying herself with some coffee beans. The American—Zuko—might be an asshole, but that doesn't give her free reign to violate his privacy.

"But you saw something," Valentina presses, leaning across the table. "What did you see, Kiara?"

"Was it something terrible?" Paolo asks.

"Did he kill someone?" Ricci wonders, a little too hopefully.

"I didn't see anything," Katara insists, just as the hand-dryer blasts to life.

The restroom door opens and Zuko comes back out to six pairs of eyes on him. He glances around slowly, and the whole scene grows decidedly suspect when everyone immediately looks away, like their hands or coffee cups or laps are suddenly fascinating.

 _"Okay,"_ Zuko mutters, drawing it out. Oh...kaaaaay.

He walks to his table just as the phone chimes a reminder that there is an unread message waiting. Katara glances up, watching as Zuko grips the back of the chair so hard that it pulls the color from his hands. He's deathly still as he reads what's on the phone, his face a horrible sort of shocked. He doesn't move until the door opens, and then he's running out before it closes again.

"Sorry you can't stay," she shouts after him. "Please feel free to call again and waste some more of my time." She grabs her notepad and goes over to help the customers who got in just before Zuko got out.

"Can you get me a highchair, Kiara?" Lotta asks, trying to lower her bags onto the floor without dropping her toddler son.

"You want me to take him?" Katara offers.

"Probably not," Lotta sighs. "He's feeling cranky today." Lucca makes a liar of her by babbling cheerily, and Katara knows that Lotta's just trying to spare her feelings. The kid pitches epic fits when anyone that isn't his mother tries to hold him, but he's happy enough to give Katara a sticky high five.

"Here," Katara says, pulling the highchair up and relieving Lotta of some of her bags.

"Thanks," she says, shaking out her arms. "Cappuccino and a warm milk, please, Kiara. Small vanilla gelato, in a bowl. And what's going on in here? Who was that boy that passed us?"

"He's new," Valentina says gleefully. "All we know is that he's a mysterious American, and he just got some news on his phone that made him run away."

"Oh?" Lotta says, turning curious eyes on Katara.

"Kiara knows more," Valentina says with a shrug. "But she's not sharing because she has a crush on the boy."

"Or because she doesn't care," Katara says, mostly to herself. "Or because whatever was on that phone is nobody's business."

"Kiara has a crush?" Lotta cries. "Ah, Kiara, this is great news, no? I worry about you, going home to your little room every night and sitting in front of your books until the sun almost rises again. You are too young to be so old. So serious, with your liquid food and your panpipes yoga and your same sad songs on your out of tune guitar."

"Hey," Katara says, indignant. They're not the same songs. She learned a third cord recently, and is making pretty decent headway through _Knockin' on Heaven's Door_.

"See?" Valentina beams. "We are just trying to bring a little joy and passion to your life, Kiara. Why do you fight the joy and—"

"She's cheating again," Katara tells Fredo.

Katara lives next door to the coffee shop in another building owned by Roberto, a boutique type of place where old furnishings are part of the charm. She has a room overlooking the courtyard on the fifth floor, her own bathroom, and a big bed that she's currently sulking on.

Her life isn't empty, far from it. Her shift had ended at seven, and she'd hung around for an hour, helping Roberto to clean out the ovens in exchange for kitchen privileges that allowed her to whip up a cobb salad, a raspberry smoothie, and a shake for the morning. She went for a walk that turned into a run as the crowds eased near the river. When she got home, she took a shower, and ate her dinner while sitting on the window-ledge, peering into Alessandro's room to watch some soccer. She had no idea who was playing, but the blue guys won.

It's already eleven, and she still has big plans for the rest of this night. There's a huge pile of laundry scattered around the room that she should gather up. Separate the darks and the whites, and have it ready to bring down to the washer-dryer in the shop's basement that Roberto allows her to use. And then she'll strum around on her guitar, try something new— _Leaving on a Jet Plane_ , maybe. She'll skype Aang and Toph after midnight, and wait until one to try her parents. They should be home from work by then, and Sokka will probably be around. She might watch a movie on her laptop before she falls asleep, or maybe get through some of her prescribed reading list for the summer. She's heard good things about _Il Cane di Terracotta_ , and she's enjoyed Camilleri's other—

Katara grabs a pillow and pulls it over her head, squeezing tight. Her life isn't empty; it's just duller than a great thaw.

The delivery truck has some sort of disaster this morning, which means that everything is behind schedule. By the time Katara arrives at work, Roberto is pulling his hair out and demanding that she whip the cream, fill the pastries, turn down the oven, load the dishwasher, get out to the store, get back here, _where do you think you're going_?

"Kiara," Valentina calls when Katara makes a dash to the counter to drop off some cakes.

"Momento," Katara shouts back.

"Kiara," Cristiano says, almost a plea.

"Momento," Katara snaps, jogging back to the kitchen. Jesus.

_"Kiara!"_

Katara's head swerves to where that came from, sighing when she sees Zuko sitting in the same spot for the third day in a row.

 _"Service?"_ he says, almost with a sneer.

"You'll be last," she promises before going into the kitchen to be yelled at some more by Roberto. Ten minutes later, she's back on the floor being yelled at by her customers.

"I'm going as fast as I can," she huffs as she places jugs of cream and cubes of sugar on tables while waiting on the espresso machine to do its thing. She hands out cakes and forks, and froths milk for cappuccinos and lattes, and does her best to ignore the hum of complaining and the non-stop ringing of Zuko's phone.

"The usual?" Katara asks Annetta, stopping by her table.

 _"Are you serious?"_ Zuko says, clicking his fingers. _"Hello! I've been sitting here for twenty minutes now. She just walked in."_

"You can sit there for another twenty as far as I'm concerned," Katara mutters. "And either answer that phone or shut it off. Nobody wants to hear any more of your dumb ringtone."

"Oh," Annetta says uncertainly. "What did he say? Was he here first? I can wait."

Katara shakes her head. "He's insisting that I serve you now. He doesn't mind waiting."

"Isn't that nice!" Annetta declares, beaming at Zuko. "Thank you." Zuko blinks back at her and furrows his eyebrows at Katara, but he goes back to scowling quietly down at the table until she arrives to take his order.

_"Finally."_

"You really are the rudest person I've ever met in my life," she says, flipping her notebook open.

 _"I don't even know what you're saying,"_ Zuko grumbles. _"I don't speak Italian."_

"You barely speak English," Katara returns, smiling.

 _"Okay, whatever. Look, I'd like a latte, only hot this time. Hot. You know, piccante. And one of these."_ He takes a menu and points at the sfogliatella. _"See, this one. I want this one. Not that… whatever the fuck that was the other day. This one."_ His finger jumps noisily on the plastic.

"Molto bene," Katara says politely.

 _"Thank you,"_ Zuko says, and then a little softer, "Grazie."

It's a small concession, a little indication that maybe this kid has some fucking manners, and Katara rewards it by steaming the milk until it's hot. She serves up the coffee alongside another biscotti amaro.

Zuko eyes the pastry. _"Seriously? Are you doing this on purpose?"_ he asks, but he's already dunking it petulantly into his coffee. _"Fuck it,"_ he says and chomps on the soggy mess. _"This tastes like ass, just so you know."_

Katara does well not to roll her eyes. Zuko has to be around her own age, no more than twenty-one, and there's something about him that you'd have to look twice to see. His hair is like the brash wrapping on a gift, hiding pretty eyes and a soft mouth. It seems like a nice mouth. Until he opens it to speak.

 _"What the fuck ever,"_ he says. _"I'm hungry."_

"Not to mention charming. And apparently, deaf," Katara says, looking down at Zuko's phone when it sings again. A picture of a mean looking older man with a weirdly pointy beard is flashing across the screen. Zuko glowers at it, and then at Katara.

"If you need anything else," Katara says in a helpful tone, shuffling away. "Please feel free to fuck off somewhere else and get it."

"Who is calling him, Kiara?" Valentina asks.

Katara pulls down a mountain of napkins that need folding. Now that she finally has a minute, she might try those swans that Aang creates in seconds. "Don't know, don't care."

"A lover, I think," Ricci says. "Someone who has hurt him a great deal. See how he looks away, as if he can't bear to see what is looking back at him."

"Is there a picture?" Paolo asks. "Did you see? Is she very pretty, Kiara?"

"No," Katara says.

"Ah," Cristiano says. "That is why he's sad. An ugly girlfriend would make any man sad."

"You are a pig, Cristiano," Annetta says hotly. "Love is not only about what is on the outside. It's about what is in the heart and the mind—"

"And the brassiere and the panties," Cristiano leers, because Annetta is right. He is a pig.

Annetta slams her cup down on the table. "You are the most insufferable, disgusting—"

"It's his father," Katara says, derailing this before it gets out of hand. "That's who's calling him."

"And he doesn't answer his father," Fredo spits. "He has no respect."

"I've been saying," she shrugs.

"Maybe his father is making him marry the ugly woman," Ricci suggests.

The door opens for Lotta and Lucca just then, and Katara greets them enthusiastically, grateful to escape this conversation.

 _"Hey,"_ Zuko says sullenly. _"How come they get the VIP treatment?"_

"How come you won't shut your face," Katara replies.

"Kiara," Lotta scolds. "Why do you speak to your boy like this?"

"Because her boy's father is forcing him into an arranged marriage with an ugly girl," Paolo tells her.

"Oh, Kiara," Lotta says, clasping her chest. "I'm so sorry."

That's it.

IT.

Katara tugs her apron off and throws it behind the counter. "I'm taking my break. My very long break. Possibly even my forever break."

It's Groundhog Day the following morning. Zuko is sitting where he sits, ignoring his blaring phone and eating his cookie without complaint. He seems oblivious to his guest role in the conspiracy theories that are growing more and more bizarre. Like, bizarre enough for the plot writers of _Squali Nel Mare Empio_ to reject outright, on grounds of sheer ludicrousness.

"He is sad," Ricci says. "Perhaps his father is a drug lord who has wronged other villains, and these people want to take this boy for revenge, but he escaped and is living undercover as a construction worker in Rome."

"I think that was your father," Valentina says.

"My father made his money in figs," Ricci cries.

"Your father made his money from what was hiding in the figs," Valentina snorts.

Ricci throws down his cup, and Katara wonders why Roberto doesn't just serve all drinks from plastic tumblers. The breakage has to be eating into his profits. "I haven't been this insulted since—"

"Since she said the same thing last week," Paolo finishes. "What? He was my father, too."

"Perhaps Ricci is right," Fredo muses. "And the revenge the other villain seeks is not to harm the boy, but to take him as a son-in-law, so that he can finally get rid of the ugly daughter."

"Pretty sure the other villain is coming out the wrong end of that deal," Katara mutters. "Not the mention, the poor daughter."

Cristiano clicks his fingers. "Yes! The daughter who is flat in the front and the rear."

"Pig!" Annetta shouts.

"Right," Katara says, crossing the floor before she can give it any more thought. Because enough, just enough. She really can't listen to any more of this nonsense, and she's had it up to here with the Evanescence ringtone. And the combination might just make her head implode. She picks up the ringing phone and presses the answer key before Zuko can even react.

"Speako," she says sarcastically and throws the phone back to Zuko. She immediately regrets it when he stares like she's just slapped him. Regrets it even more when she hears a desperate, tinny voice coming from two feet and five thousand miles away.

_"Zuko? Hello? Are you there, son? Zuko?"_

Katara walks away before she does something else dumb. "No," she says, wagging a finger threateningly at her captive audience. "No...updates. Jesus. Can't any of you be...be...normal?"

"Like you?" Valentina smirks. Which is probably fair, given that Katara is the one shouting and flapping her hands, and she's also the one stomping across the floor and grabbing a pastry from the kitchen.

"Taking five," she tells Roberto, and goes to the stairwell for some peace and gluttony.

It really is the wrong type of pastry, she thinks as she shoves it into her mouth. There's flour and sugar and fresh cream, and none of those things ever did her stomach any favors. But it does wonders for her mood, and she's feeling a little less nuts when she gets back to work in a completely silent shop.

"What?" she says, unnerved.

Valentina mimes rubbing at her eyes with closed fists while nodding over at Zuko.

Shit. Katara takes a breath, and walks to Zuko's table. "Okay, look," she says. "I shouldn't have done that."

 _"What?"_ Zuko looks up and blinks red-rimmed eyes at her. _"No. I don't need anything else, thanks."_ There are miserable, angry streaks blotching across his cheekbones.

"I'm sorry," Katara says.

 _"I'm good, thanks,"_ Zuko says, standing to throw some money on the table. He grabs his hat and phone, and ducks by her to get to the door.

Katara feels helpless as she watches him leave. "This is your fault," she says, pointing a finger around the shop. "You are all going to me make as crazy as you are."


	2. Chapter 2

Katara gets stuck the following morning. It's not the first time it's happened, and Roberto will come looking for her sooner or later. Until then, there's not really anything to be done except sit on the bags of laundry and send the _sooner_ out to the universe. While trying not to panic.

"Kiara," Roberto shouts, bursting through the door. "You did it again."

"It happened again," Katara corrects. "I didn't do anything."

"I think this elevator has an allergy to you," Roberto continues, rattling the cage door. "I told you to stick to the stairs. You can't break the stairs."

"I had to get all this laundry down. And I didn't break the elevator."

"Well, I don't see anyone else in there."

"There isn't room for anyone else in here," Katara snaps. There isn't; the car is only one person wide and two people deep. It reminds her of a coffin, which reminds her of the panic licking her stomach. "Do you think you can call the guy, and get—" She's cut off by Roberto clapping his hands excitedly and running for the door.

"I know what," he calls over his shoulder. "Everything will be okay. Just wait there, Kiara. Don't go anywhere."

"Well, I mean, if I get a better offer," Katara huffs. She closes her eyes to visualize her breathing, focus on it until everything else fades away. There's nothing but the movement of her chest as it pushes out and collapses in, out and in. Full inhale, full exhale. Inhale, exhale. She can see her heart slowing down, only for it to almost stop completely when Roberto comes crashing back in the door.

"See," Roberto says, pushing a confused looking Zuko in front of him. He starts to gesticulate between Zuko and the foot of space separating the elevator from the ground. "He can fix this. Tell him to fix this, and we'll pay him in free coffees." He pauses. "Maximum of five."

But Zuko seems to have figured out what Roberto wants without any help from Katara. _"Oh,"_ he says, pointing to himself. _"Yeah, no, I'm not in construction. You need an engineer. I'm just a third-year architect student. I work in restorations. Well, more like volunteer in exchange for hard hats and these very fetching vests."_

Roberto looks to Katara for some sort of translation. "He can't help," she says, rolling her neck. "He does restoration projects."

"Gah," Roberto exclaims and throws Zuko a disappointed look before leaving again.

_"He's gone to get an engineer, right?"_ Zuko says, watching him go. _"Maybe I'll stay with you in case there's a fire. You'd cook in there."_ He steps up to the gate and cranes his head to peer up at the ceiling of the elevator. _"Neat system. Holeless hydraulic, I think. Don't see these too often in the US."_ His hands pat the pockets of his dark jeans, pulling out a notebook and a small pencil. _"Cool building. You live here? I live in a hostel, which is really just a big shed."_ His voice fades as he moves away, and Katara closes her eyes again. It's getting really hot in here and her back is starting to itch. The air feels like it's too thick to be taken in, like it might get stuck in her throat. She's edging a pretty big panic attack.

She tries a different focus, tuning out everything but the soft sounds in the hall. The swish of Zuko's pencil as it flies over the pages of his notebook, the little click of his phone as he snaps photos, the depth of his tone as he carries on talking. _"...all originals...someone who studied Bernini...maybe seventeen fifties, probably not long before Baroque went out of style...he created David... not the David, as in the enormous naked ripped dude in Florence... that's Michelangelo…"_

Katara can sense herself drift, as if her head is stuffed with cotton. She can't even hear Zuko's voice anymore, so he's probably already gone—

_"Hey, hey!"_

She jolts, startled by the sudden shout and the appearance of Zuko's face almost pressed against the cage door. _"Shit, you're not okay in there, are you? Fuck. When is your boss coming back?"_ He looks briefly over his shoulder. _"Hey, you do know that you're perfectly safe, right? I can't fix this elevator, but I have a pretty good idea of how it works. Chances are, it's just the stabilizer sensor, which means that the elevator can't move. It's frozen. You're not going to plunge to your death, or anything. I mean, even if you were, which you're not, you'll only plunge about ten inches before you hit the ground, and you seem pretty tough. No problem, you could absorb the impact."_

Not helping, Katara thinks.

_"I'm probably not helping,"_ Zuko says. _"But if there is a fire, and we have to get you out of there, I can break this door down."_

Roberto would kill them.

_"Although, your landlord would probably kill us."_ He tosses his air out of his eyes, staring intently at her. _"I don't think you're worried about falling. I think you might be claustrophobic."_

Since Katara was a kid and Sokka locked her in the closet under the stairs.

_"You probably got locked in somewhere small when you were a kid,"_ he says, flicking through his phone. _"How about some soothing music? I'll find something on Youtube, and we'll get you calmed right down. How about some whales? They're relaxing, right?"_

No phone signal in here.

_"I can't get a signal."_ Zuko waves his phone in the air without success. _"Should I make some whale sounds for you? What do they sound like anyway?"_ He opens his mouth, tips his head back and forces the weirdest howl from the back of his throat. _"No, wait. I'll have another go."_ He does, and Katara can't help but laugh, sharp and incredulous.

_"I know what you're thinking,"_ he says with a smirk. _"How did Shamu get in here, right?"_

Not even close.

_"It must be working because you're starting to look a little more with us. Actually, now that I think of it—"_ she watches as he goes fishing in his pockets again. _"Aha!"_ He holds up a battered orange that's more oblong than spherical. _"Want to have lunch with me? Excuse the nails—it's just dust."_

Katara's sitting on her dirty laundry while marinating in her own sweat. She can handle a little dust.

Zuko's hands are deft and clever as they strip the skin, doing most of the work with the pads of his thumbs. _"I think it might be best if I keep talking. I know you can't understand a word I'm saying, but that'll probably work for both of us."_ He begins threading the orange segments through the bars of the door, where Katara's grateful fingers can collect them. He keeps only the last piece for himself. _"You need more than that. Your blood sugar is probably tanking right now."_ He puts the peel back into his pockets, which is a sure fire way to attract every wasp in Rome.

_"I'll have to put those in the trash later, or every wasp in Rome is going to be after me,"_ he says. _"So, I'm Zuko, and you're Kiara, right?"_ He points to himself— _"Zuko."_ —and then to her— _"Kiara."_

Katara nods.

_"And you were an asshole yesterday when you answered my phone. But you actually did me a huge favor, so thanks."_ He holds up his one piece of orange, like he's making a toast. _"Bon appetit."_

Katara's already sucking on the juice while chewing the pulp. It's like eating citrusy heaven.

_"That was my dad calling,"_ Zuko continues. _"We haven't spoken for a while because I chose to come here instead of staying in Caldera for my sister's wedding. Azula got married the other day. I was supposed to be in her wedding party, along with her maid of honor Ty Lee._

_She and Azula have been best friends since they were kids, so Ty Lee and I were too by default. We did everything together from learning to walk to going to school to getting caught with fake IDs to her sleeping with my girlfriend."_ He glances up, a sick look on his face. _"I caught them. Like, walked in on them."_ Zuko wrinkles his nose. _"Ew,"_ he says. _"It was gross, and I don't get it, you know? Like, if you're into that, fine. But then why was Mai even with me in the first place? And Ty Lee is my best friend, and she's supposed to love me. The whole thing was a shitshow."_

Katara chews another orange section, trying to imagine how shitty she'd feel if her family betrayed her like that. The worst thing Sokka ever did to her was lock her in that closet, and maybe it's time to let that fully die.

_"Ty Lee begged me not to tell anyone, and I didn't. Never told anyone before now. Not even my sister. Our family just think that she and I had a dumb falling out, but I just couldn't stand there on the altar with her, pretend that everything was okay. No way."_ Zuko sighs heavily and his jaw works silently for a few seconds. _"So I came here, and now everyone is mad at me. Everyone. You're so stubborn, Zuko. You're so irresponsible, Zuko. This is why we never let you have a dog, Zuko. You're breaking your mother's heart, Zuko. Ugh. They all think I'm having a great time, being Indiana Fucking Jones in Italy. But."_ He stops, and swallows painfully. _"I'm miserable most of the time. I just miss them all so much, and I hate that they're mad at me, and I hate that things will never be the same again between me and Ty Lee, and I hate that I can't say why."_

It cuts Katara, how dull and small he sounds, and it also dawns on her that it's time to end this charade—maybe even long past it—but she should say something to this kid who's spilling his heart onto the floor to stop her having a panic attack. Something in English. But whatever she is going to say curdles in her throat when Zuko speaks again.

_"Actually, I'd die if anyone knew about that. Thank god you don't understand English. Not that I'd be telling you any of this if you did. And, I'm sorry about that first day, that speako English thing. I was on a streak of pissing absolutely everybody off, and it was the wedding day, and I was all, you know."_ He throws his hands up and waves them a little. _"But it's not all bad now. I spoke with my dad, and my mom called me after, and it's still...not great. But it's as good as it can be right now. So, there's that. And oh, hey, the cavalry."_

Katara looks up as Roberto reappears with the engineer. "Her again," the engineer scoffs. "I thought you barred her from using the elevator."

_"And I think that's my cue to go,"_ Zuko says, stretching a little. _"I missed my coffee, though. You owe me."_

Katara pushes herself up quickly, too quickly. Her head still feels a little muzzy. "Zuko," she says, pressing her hands into the gaps where his were seconds before. "Grazie."

_"You're welcome,"_ Zuko says, his smile lighting up his face, taking the gloom out of it. And Katara's going to blame the dizziness for how that makes her stomach swoop.

When Zuko comes into the shop again, he's talking loudly into the phone he has jammed between his ear and his shoulder. Although maybe not loudly – just amplified in the sudden, curious silence.

"Nothing to see here, people," Katara says warningly.

"What's he saying?" Paolo whispers.

"Something about where he's hidden the bodies of all the other silly yentas that have taken an unhealthy interest in his life."

"Kiara," Ricci complains.

"I am not listening to his private conversation," she says, clipped.

_"Morning, lovely,"_ Zuko says as he passes by. Katara blinks, and turns to watch him settle into his seat. _"Not you, Azula. I was talking to the cute waiter who works here. I saved her life yesterday."_

Katara grabs a cloth and begins wiping down some nearby tables.

"Can I have a cappuccino, Kiara?" Cristiano asks.

"Quiet," she hisses.

"But—"

"No," she huffs. "Maybe. In a minute."

"Oh, so _now_ you're listening," Valentina smirks, her eyes on the chess pieces in front of her.

I'm trying to, Katara thinks.

_"Nah,"_ Zuko laughs. _"She's always salty as fuck, though. We have this thing going on where she deliberately gives me the wrong order every time...No, I thought she was just terrible at her job, too. At first...Joke's on her though. I actually really like the cookies she thinks I hate..."_

Katara turns her back to hide her smile.

"Cappuccino, Kiara," Cristiano reminds her.

She nods and reaches for a clean jug to steam some milk. She tries to keep it as quiet as possible until Zuko finishes his call.

"Finally," Cristiano sighs, and then gapes when Katara slaps his hands away.

"Not for you," she says, bringing the coffee to Zuko, along with a sfogliatella.

_"Thanks,"_ Zuko says, moving his hat and phone out of the way. _"Oh. That's. Is that the thing I ordered the first day? And the second? And probably the third and fourth?"_ His nose twitches as he gives the plate a considerably unfriendly look. _"It's just that I like the other things better now. The cookie things?"_

The cookie things. Roberto would pull his own hair out if he heard that.

_"You know,"_ Zuko continues slowly. _"That's weird. I was just talking to my sister, and I said. I mentioned—"_ He narrows his eyes suspiciously. _"It's almost as if…"_

"Almost as if what?" Katara asks innocently, not so much as flinching when he stares her down.

_"No, never mind,"_ Zuko says, shaking his head.

"Okay, well, enjoy," she says, her smile syrupy sweet. "Hope it's not too salty for you."

She can feel the sass in her step when she leaves to clear more tables and brew more coffee. "And what is wrong with your face?" she asks Cristiano, pointing at the strange, grimacing thing he has happening.

"I'm smiling at you in the hope that it gets me what I want," Cristiano says. "It worked for him."

"Maybe save that for the ladies," Katara suggests, reaching for the milk, and then abandoning it again when there's a crash from the kitchen. The next five minutes consist of her being shouted at by Roberto for leaving her laundry bag by the door, and she can stay to clean up the tray of cannoli that are scattered all over the floor and the clean clothes, and Jesus Christ, _get back out to the shop where she's needed_.

She goes straight to Zuko's table, smirking when she sees that only half the pastry has been eaten. He seems to have forgotten about it anyway, and is busy with the same notebook he had yesterday.

"You didn't like the—" she stops abruptly. "Stupefacente," she says without thinking.

Zuko looks up at her with slightly wounded eyes. _"Stupid?"_

"No," Katara says quickly, pointing at the opened page. "Um, fantastico. Brillante." It's a pattern from an ornate tile, a small sketch of something bigger, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The detail is amazing, even in charcoal and shade. "Magnifico."

_"Well,"_ Zuko says, looking decidedly more pleased. _"If you feel like being nice, I'm not going to argue."_ He rubs absently at the graphite staining the side of his hand. _"It's the project I'm working on right now. Up at the church."_ His face is soft, as is the smile that he bites off his lips. _"I'm glad you like it."_

"Very much," she says.

He smiles again and begins to gather up his belongings.

"Momento," Katara says, running quickly to collect a paper bag from the counter. "For you," she says, holding it out to him.

He looks inside curiously. _"Oh, the cookie things. Thanks, Kiara."_ He digs around in his pocket for his wallet.

"No," she says, shaking her head dramatically. "No, grazie, Zuko."

Zuko looks confused.

"Grazie," Katara repeats, pointedly.

_"Oh. Is this for yesterday? You don't have to do that. It was no big deal."_

"Actually, it was," she says.

_"Well, let me pay for the cookies, at least."_

She shakes his head again, giving his wallet a filthy look.

_"Okay. Thank you. But here, take this."_ He opens his notebook and pulls out the page she was admiring. _"Consider it a tip. And because you like it so much."_ He's almost shy as he hands it over.

"I couldn't," Katara begins, and then stops because Zuko might get offended by any objections. And because she really wants the sketch. "Grazie," she says, taking it.

"Prego," Zuko replies proudly.

"Hey, Kiara, what are you whispering about? What did you get?" Valentina asks when Zuko leaves. "Did you buy him lunch?"

"Okay," Katara says, putting the sketch into the large pocket of her apron and clapping her hands for attention. "Listen up, everyone. I'm going to tell you everything I know. Zuko's argument with his father was one of those silly arguments all families have. They've sorted it out now. He's a student spending his summer here because he's studying architecture, and he's got a placement on some restoration works. He gave me this sketch because I said I liked it. I'll pay for his coffee and pastry because he kept me company when I got stuck in the elevator yesterday. There's biscotti in the bag I just gave him, because he likes them. And that's the whole story. I'm sorry it's not more thrilling."

"There is no ugly girl?" Paolo asks, disappointed.

"No ugly girl, no drug lords, no other villains, no forced marriages. No mystery whatsoever."

"Ah, Kiara," Valentina says mildly. "That's not true. The greatest mystery has yet to be solved. The one where we figure out why you are still pretending that you don't understand Zuko when he speaks to you." She smirks victoriously when Katara blushes a shade that feels ugly on her face. "See, you are the one creating the drama now. We're all just watching the show." With a quick flick of her wrist, she knocks over her husband's king. "Checkmate."

Katara's struggling for a reply when Cristiano gets up and walks behind the counter. "I'm just going to make my own cappuccino."


End file.
